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Rh

Whose martial form a truer image gives Of firm heroic courage.

Cease, sweet Portia! He only laughs at thy simplicity.

Simplicity seen through a harmless wile, Like to the infant urchin, half concealed Behind his smiling dam's transparent veil. The song is not a stranger to mine ear, Methinks I've heard it passing thro' those wilds, Whose groves and caves, if rumour speak the truth, Are by the Nazarenes or Christians haunted.

Let it no more be sung within my walls: A chaunt of them's to bring on pestilence! Sing it no more. What sounds are those I hear?

The dismal death-drum and the crowd without. They are this instant leading past your door Those wretched Christians to their dreadful doom.

We'll go and see them pass. [Exeunt hastily,.

I cannot look on them, nor hear the sound. I'll to my chamber.

May not I, I pray, Look on them as they pass?